2004-05-31
Drifting Through A Sea of Restlessness
hearing: nothing
reading: Middlemarch by George Eliot
wearing: pjs, hair clip to keep my bangs off my forehead while I sleep
Sleep drifts, slowly, just out of reach.
She lays in bed, suspended between a tormented existence of guilt, dissatisfaction and longing, and a blank dark nonexistence. She tosses, and turns, so tired, grasping and groping for this obliteration of senses, but certain thoughts keep spinning through her mind. Thoughts of people. Certain people.
And perhaps it isn't all that unpleasant. Not when her thoughts send chills of...unexplainable feelings thrilling and trembling their way through her heart and all the way down to the soles of her feet.
And she flips over again. Shivering and quivering as she dreams many a dream and lays out countless scenarios.
And she flips over again.
And sleep will not come, not entirely, but neither will wakefulness, until slowly, by degrees, she forces herself back out of this suspension and into wakefulness.
There, her feelings are confused. Is that elation? Or is it desperate longing? Now turns she to other matters to feel depression? And in turn, she feels the futility of the saline droplets sparked by this despondency and feels guilt and disgust.
Why can't she slay the slothfulness and self pity which are her devilish dragons? Why can't she be content with life how it is, only longing for the better world beyond? Why can't she change what she needs to so that she may be happy? It takes only attitude and determination to get where she wishes to be.
And then, the bits which would plague her still... Patience...creativity even perhaps? She could move that places.
Then maybe she could gain herself the sleep she so desperately desires. Then maybe it will return to her.
But she is sick of all of this. She doesn't want to fix things and be happy. It all seems too useless and futile. Why does she want these things so much?
She is just too restless. Too tired. Too caged.
She tears violently at the cold iron bars of mediocre, provincial life. An attempt at something more. But out of here, what is there? What is there else? All is the same, anywhere she turns, she cannot find what she is looking for. She never will find it here, will she?
Death is the only escape, but she shall not bring it to herself. She must toil out her days and make them most worth her while until it chooses to come and relieve her of the weary task of life.
Ah ah...back to the irksome, dull, unexceptional daily grind of life again then...Which all must face...
I am very well aware that I said my abuse of the third person would be over. Surprise surprise, it isn't. By now, I am beginning to sense that it never shall be. I still find it the best way to convey my otherwise prosaic emotion.
I should also like to thank a girl by the name of Bronwyn who dropped me a comment on an earlier entry to compliment my May entries. I am not sure if she shall see this, and I feared that if I directly replied to her comment in the correct entry, and if she ever returned, she should still miss it.
I bow humbly at the compliment *proceeds to do so, I thank you for it, and I heartily thank you for leaving me a comment. There is nothing which pleases me more, than when a stranger whom has come through reading slews of my diary entries, leaves me a note, comment, guestbook entry, or email pertaining to my writing. It makes me ever so happy. I wish more would do it.
But it's times like these, that I fear leaving diary land, because suddenly, I won't be listed in a members area anymore, for nice, interested people to accidently stumble across my diary and find a moment of enjoyment.
I am torn...